


Waning Days

by Yenneffer



Series: Rage of Angels [2]
Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: AU, Gen, POV Third Person, vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yenneffer/pseuds/Yenneffer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has to be the end of days.</p>
<p>(Arthur's POV)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waning Days

“Arthur.”

Arthur looked around, cautiously. His cold body was vibrating, excited: he could smell the blood, still fresh and probably licking in the small droplets down the corpse, quickly cooling even in this unbearable heat. Yet it was still blood, and still smelled like one. And the simple fact that Arthur was a vampire (coupled with another simple fact that vampires feed on blood) was enough of an explanation for his current excitement. Arthur had accepted that. Now his nostrils violently flared, sensing the intoxicating liquid, and his veins started pulsing with his own blood, cold and old, dead. Most definitely excited.

And repulsed.

That blood out there _(58 metres, slightly to the left)_ was already dead. What a waste, he thinks.

“Arthur.”

Arthur sharply turned, cocking his head.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you again,” said a slightly mocking voice, one that Arthur doesn’t want to remember much, but oh he does.

How couldn’t he? The last time he’d heard it, his well-organised and steady night-life had been lost, now he knew, forever.

The smouldering hate mingling with hunger in his veins is not a promising sign, he decided. Doubly dead and damned to the lowest bowels of Hell, that’s what would become of them.

The slim light-haired figure disentangled itself from the murky corridor. “You probably don’t remember me too fondly, Arthur, but you were young back then, there were many things you didn’t understand. Lancelot...”

“Is not here. Please get to the point.”

“Always so frank,” mused the other. “Very well; I’ll concede that Lancelot is not, indeed, here. _Which_ is my point, in fact.”

“Licar,” Arthur hissed. “Your games are really not appreciated here. Either say directly why you were following me- and it had better be a good reason, one that I can understand and condone- or. Leave. Me. Alone.”

The smile he received in return was nothing pretty. Sharp and a little too-wide, the pretty face of the monster transformed into something grotesque, a far cry from the usual coquettish look Licar was known for. It said, I can do far more than kill you.

I can destroy every memory anyone has ever had of you; be the end, the abyss everyone like you fears in his gut. And I want to do it.

There really would be nothing left.

Arthur gritted his sharp teeth (the teeth that were not made for it; the grating sound they make in the silence raises the hair on his neck). He knew he would be lost if he showed fear now; torn to pieces by dental protrusions hundreds years his senior. And he wasn’t: being afraid was something he had lost even before he met Lancelot.

Of course, knowing him had only reinforced that character feature.

His body grew even more cold, solidly, as it knew what was coming next; it knew battle as intimately as babes knew mother’s milk. The taste was more sour, but it was home for him: cold, windy, wet and bloody home.

[Britannia, you remember?

“... so no one can tell me where exactly they’ve seen him last, or even when that was. You can see, it lacks specificity,” Licar was finishing with a flourish, smiling dramatically. Arthur refocused his entire attention on the blond, blinking once to catalogue what he’d heard. Then...

“No one?”

“Except for you, I hope.” He didn’t like the way Licar smiled; every version of it felt like something crawling up his spine and burrowing in his mind, a bug he couldn’t get rid of.

“You hoped wrong,” Arthur replied smoothly.

Licar frowned, “It’s imperative I meet with him!”

“For you, isn’t it?” Arthur’s gaze heated, stubborn and darkly victorious.

“You fail to understand the importance of it; Lancelot. Is. Gone. No one knows anything about his whereabouts, or even if he still remains amongst the living!”

“Well, dead,” the blond reconsidered thoughtfully after a pause to calm down. “You have to realise that no news is bad news.”

Arthur contemplated the long, dark corridor before him, frowning. The wet walls alone were going to give him rheumatism, and the smell...

“How did you find me?” He asked, his voice hard. First things first.

“A rumour; about you going home.”

“What rumour?” he asked sharply. He always kept his ears tuned, but he’d never heard anything...

“Rodia told me. You’d need to ask him.”

“I will,” he promised darkly, and turned soundlessly on his heel. Heading back towards the way he’d entered, he didn’t hear Licar following, but he guessed he did.

~~~~

“I have never begged anyone. For anything. Even Lancelot. But I really do need your help.”

They were sitting opposite each other in a pair of park chairs, a chessboard a hard and real barrier between their bodies. There were still many hours left till dawn, they had time.

Arthur wished they hadn’t.

He couldn’t say no. Not without having to explain why exactly was it that he didn’t want to go looking for the sharp-tongued Sarmatian vampire. And for that he was too private a man ( _a vampire_ ).

Lancelot was a box of secrets better left screwed.

“I’ve been to Russia, Ukraine, United States... I have even searched Rome in order to find him. And wherever I go, I find nothing but stale air. Don’t you wonder what has happened to him?” Licar sounded genuine in his pleading, desperate and annoyed at the same time.

As to his question... Yes, Arthur had wondered. Who he was with, where he was, what he was doing. Years as a commander in Roman army did that to him; turned him into a control-seeking person. Once a commander, always a commander.

No wonder he and Lancelot had clashed so much. The Sarmatian loved to be free. They were a match made in Hell ( _Lucifer applauding from the sidelines while they burned and grew cold and then burned again; blood, rain and snow at once_ ).

A bad omen, as the vampire from the pagan world had once said.

Arthur’s dead heart thumped duly, not losing the independent rhythm it had maintained since the dark-haired vampire had left.

Shaking his head stubbornly, Arthur focused his eyes on the vampire he was facing. Something primal, possessive and careful reared its ugly head every time he considered him. Something instinctive.

That was all right, too: he had nothing against ugly these days.

“Yes, I do wonder where he is. But I will not help you find him. Lancelot is a free spirit; as much as I’d like to see him tear into you for intruding onto him, I appreciate him going maverick on me far less.”

Licar’s eyes turned a fiery shade in the moonlight. “But you see, he wouldn’t! Not on you. Our days can be waning, our race diminishing, but his regard and tolerance for you hasn’t changed. That’s why you must come with me.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, nothing more than two icy emeralds framed by the predatory face. He would be shaking, too, if his pride allowed him such a weakness in front of something that his mind was now cataloguing as an enemy, warning red neon lights flashing.

“You want to use me against him, don’t you?” The fiery pit in his stomach still sometimes yearned for Excalibur, longing to bring death with a violent swipe of metal against skin, a clearly cut off head. His fangs did the work, yes. But there’s nothing like a rush of victory, overwhelming swelling in his chest that cried out, you’re alive.

The problem is, though, that you’re not. You don’t deserve Excalibur and its glory.

Licar was laughing, grimly amused. “Arthur, Arthur,” he murmured patronisingly. “Your sense of self-importance has not changed an iota. Let me put it like that, then: your friend may be in serious danger. I do not know if he is still alive, but I guess that yes. I dare not, however, bet on the state he is currently in. Does he not deserve our help? _Your_ loyalty?”

With that, the slim, blond, dangerous being stood up to disappear into the night, probably towards the drunken jeers they had been ignoring until now.

Arthur cursed, barely realising he was alone now. If he wanted to survive (he did, he thought) then he would have to do better than that. Caution and self-awareness, not daydreaming, he chastised himself.

~~~~

On his way out of the park, Arthur notices a couple: she, young and fresh, beautiful in a way only girls in love can be; he, a twenty-something guy, most likely handsome and possessing raucous laughter. They make love, twisted around each other, an uncomfortable park bench digging into bare fresh.

When he inhales them in, he feels their rush of blood and a slowly building orgasm. He watches from the shadows of a nearby tree, enthralled with moves he hasn’t partaken in since the longer part of forever.

This, this is life.

They are like angels, beautiful and mortal, not the stunning caricatures that know the moves and perform them, devoid of feeling; no, they live through the moves, breathe each other in and whisper sweet nothings into the bare skin.

The bench squeaks, loud and unnatural in the silence filled with their gorgeous moans, and they slip a little down, frantic and close.

He can only watch, staying rooted like a tree rustling behind his cold, cold back.

They finish with trembling thighs and bitten mouths- and there, there is their blood, smelling of their coupling (and his whole being is _want_ )---

“You fucking git, you...” the girl exhales, furious. “Pathetic piece of shit!” She shrieks.

“Sorry, babe. I don’t pay for fucks,” the guy shrugs, putting on his pants.

“You obviously need to if you can’t get any for free!” The prostitute hisses venomously, refusing to budge. Her partner shrugs again and pushes her away when she tries to stop him from leaving.

She leaves, too; Arthur for now stays, disillusioned, under the huge oak tree.

Later, he follows the guy, and tears into the flesh on his neck. Warm blood rushes into him, tasting sweet on his ravenous tongue. His sharp teeth scrape against sensitive skin, searching for leverage. It’s inelegant and brutal, just like the world is. It’s bloody, more than any war he ever fought in was. It is the end, he thinks, when he dumps the body in the dirty street, unrecognisable and ravished.

It has to be the end of days.

~~~~


End file.
